People Like Us(62)

Nola is curled up in a ball with a satin, lace-trimmed eye mask over her face, her coat pulled over her like a blanket, earbuds blocking out the sounds of the train and our fellow passengers. I try to close my eyes, but the overhead light is too bright and the sound of a woman crying into her phone behind me is too distracting.

I look over at Nola and wonder how far we are from her stop. It can’t possibly be that much farther. The whole trip was only a few hours. I touch my forehead to the window, trying to see past my own reflection. We’re slowing down, about to enter a station. I kick Nola’s feet and she growls and removes her mask, squinting at me with one eye.

“Are we there yet?”

She glances out the window, one eye still squeezed shut, giving her an odd pirate look, especially with the mask still half on and her hair gathered into a loose, messy braid. “Unfortunately, yes.” She yawns, heaving her bag onto her shoulder as the train grinds to a halt and the conductor announces the station name. “Prepare.”

I follow her out into the dark parking lot, a little nervous to meet whatever bizarre humans spawned Nola Kent, but as she walks under the bright parking-lot lights, her Mary Janes clicking on the slick pavement, an energetic gray-haired man bounds toward her and attempts to lift her into a bear hug. “She returns!” He beams.

She wriggles away and gestures to me politely. “This is Katherine Donovan. Katherine, this is my father.”

He looks surprised and very pleased. “Well, that’s wonderful.” He reaches a hand out to me at a wide angle, so I’m not sure whether he’s going for a shake or hug.

I go for the shake. “Kay is fine. I’m sorry, Mr. Kent, I thought you were expecting me.” I cast Nola an uncertain glance.

She shakes her head vigorously. “It’s fine.”

“It’s more than fine. And call me Bernie,” Mr. Kent booms. He ushers us into the backseat of a gleaming Jaguar and jumps into the front seat. “Next stop, Tranquility.”

“Dad,” Nola says through gritted teeth.

I look at her questioningly.

She just shakes her head.

When we get to the house, I understand.

Her house is not a house. It’s a mansion. Next to it, Brie’s family lives in a shack, and next to that, I live in a shoe box. Nola’s house makes mine look like a diorama. It’s one of those traditional pastel seaside manors with dozens of rooms that you couldn’t possibly do anything with except decorate and hire someone to constantly clean while you wait for guests, possibly guests who never come. In Nola’s case, I suspect I might be the first, although for all I know her parents are avid entertainers. They’re definitely talkers. Tranquility is the name of the house. It’s posted on a charming little white sign with red-and-white-rope trim at the mailbox and again inside the foyer, which is the size of my living and dining room combined. There, a framed, calligraphied sign WELCOME TO OUR HOME hangs over a leather-bound guestbook, a feather quill and inkwell set next to it. I run my fingers over the rows of names in the open page of the guestbook, wondering if Nola made the sign. The handwriting is much neater than the practiced script I remember from her notebook and the lines of verse on her dorm walls. The ink on this page is fresh and there are plenty of names, all of them pairs. Couples, no singles or families.

Nola shuts the book on my finger and I step back guiltily, feeling like I’ve been caught snooping in someone’s underwear drawer. “It’s not for us; it’s for them,” she says dismissively. She waves me down the hall.

The floor is polished hardwood and the walls are lemon cream. Enormous bay windows beside the front door reveal a front yard enclosed by a wrought-iron security gate and bordered by balsam firs. Through gaping arches on either side of the foyer are curved hallways leading on one side to a cavernous library where walnut shelves stretch from floor to ceiling. At the end of the other hallway is a glass solarium filled with an array of exotic-looking plants.

A woman even shorter than Nola with her same dreamy eyes and elfin features floats down a spiral staircase in a silk nightgown. Her hair is dyed bright red and tied in a tight bun on top of her head, and either she’s had some masterful work done on her face or the gift of eternal youth has been bestowed upon her. “Sweetheart,” she says in a breathy southern accent, “you are wasting away.”

“I am exactly the same weight as I was September first,” Nola says, standing politely still as her mother pecks the air beside each of her cheeks.

She turns her glittering eyes on me. “Who’s this?”

“This is Katherine.”

Once again, my teeth sort of itch at the sound of my full name. I don’t go by Katherine. Nola knows I don’t go by Katherine. It’s starting to annoy me. “Kay,” I say, pressing my lips into a smile.

“Will you be joining us for the weekend?”

I look to Nola.

“Mother, the weekend’s over. She’s staying with us for the week.”

Mrs. Kent blinks. “Well, that’s just perfect! There’s room for everyone. I want to hear all about your classes, sweetheart, but if I don’t take my migraine pills and lie in bed with a washcloth over my eyes right now, I will be out of sorts for the duration.” She kisses the air again. “There’s leftovers in the kitchen. Marla made quiche and potatoes au gratin, and there’s always the usual small dishes if you want some nibbles.” She nods toward me. “It’s nice to meet you, Katherine.”